Unbreak My Heart
by johnsarmylady
Summary: It's two years since Sherlock jumped, and now he's back and ready to pick up where he left off...but things have changed. A sequel to Never Tear Us Apart.
1. Prologue

**Over a year ago I promised to write a sequel to Never Tear Us Apart. I knew it wouldn't be easy as NTUA 'followed' a lot of series 2, and being at the time fairly certain they were bringing in a wife for John Watson I realised I would have to be a little more creative...and yes, I kept putting it off!  
>Now, in honour of Bonfire Night (or Guy Fawkes Night if you prefer) I offer you the opening chapter of that sequel - I hope you enjoy it.<br>Disclaimers: As ever, the honours go to ACD, SM and MG, I don't own these guys. I thank them for the wonderful bits of dialogue and text messages that I have filched, and I thank my good friend Sue for lending me the Series 3 DVDs...**

In an Eastern block country, in a damp dirty cellar, a hulking thug of a torturer stormed out of the room, the words his prisoner had spoken ringing in still in his ears.

Sitting in the shadow out of the way of the torturer's work was a soldier. Until now he had been quiet, just asking occasionally for clarification of the prisoner's words, now he moved forwards and leaning down pulled the chained man's head up by his hair.

"There's an underground terrorist network active in London and a massive attack is imminent. Sorry, but the holiday is over, brother dear." With a smile Mycroft Holmes released the prisoner's hair and straightened up. "Back to Baker Street, Sherlock Holmes."

xXx

"What do you mean he's moved on?"

Freshly showered, shaved and dressed once more in his customary suit and crisp white shirt, Sherlock paused in his observation of his reflection and shifted his gaze over his right shoulder to glare at his brother.

"Exactly what I said, John Watson has moved out of Baker Street and moved on with his life." Mycroft's face twisted as if uncomfortable with the subject matter.

"You promised…"

"I know Sherlock, I promised to look after him and make sure no harm came to him – unfortunately as I couldn't appraise him of the facts he believed me to be responsible…."

"But you do know where he is? He is alive?"

Mycroft looked surprised, then peered closer at his brother's reflection and his face settled into an expression of understanding.

"Ah, you thought…." He cleared his throat. "I believe John voluntarily handed his service weapon to your Detective Inspector friend, who – rather than arrest him for having an unlicensed weapon – passed it to me."

Stepping over to his desk he pulled open a draw and lifting the Browning out handed it to his brother.

"Where is he?" Sherlock's voice croaked, tight with emotion as he took the gun.

"Islington, he has a house there, and works in a local surgery – I believe the senior partner is considering offering him a partnership in the practice…."

"Give me his address."

"Ah, now that might not be the best idea right at this moment," Mycroft prevaricated. "Maybe you should let Lestrade know you are alive? And Mrs Hudson? Surely it would be a kindness to tell her?"

Sherlock scowled and said nothing.

"And it would be good manners to let Miss Hooper know that you are back from the dead, so that she can stop worrying that she might let the cat out of the bag so to speak."

"I want….I need to see John." Sherlock's scowl became an expression of suspicion. "What it is that you don't want me to know?"

Under his brother's sharp gaze Mycroft grew uncomfortable – it wasn't something that happened often to him, but he could appreciate how Sherlock's 'victims' felt when faced with that icy gaze.

The silence stretched between them, uncomfortable and claustrophobic until, with a resigned sigh, Mycroft lowered himself into his chair, his hands clasped on the desk in front of him.

"For the past year he has been living with a woman, a Miss Mary Morstan…." Seeing the blood drain from his brother's already pale face Mycroft waved him to a chair, waiting until he was seated before continuing. "I understand from what he has told Lestrade that it started as companionship, but over time it has evolved."

"Evolved how?"

"I understand they are planning to marry next summer."

Mycroft watched his brother's reaction. The younger man went absolutely still, and he closed his eyes.

"Then I've lost him." He whispered.

"He believed he had lost you."

xXx

In the end Sherlock paid a short visit to Scotland Yard (the underground car park, where he almost made Lestrade choke on his cigarette), another to Bart's morgue to relieve Molly of her fears of betraying him, and a slightly longer visit to 221B Baker Street where after the initial shock had subsided Mrs Hudson took him to task for his deception and nearly hugged him to death in relief that he wasn't truly dead.

As she poured him another cup of tea, Martha Hudson took in the changes wrought by Sherlock's time away, then broached the question that had been on the tip of her tongue almost from the moment he walked through her door.

"Have you told John?"

Sherlock flicked a glance at her then glanced away.

"Mycroft withheld his address until I had been to see you, he promised to text the address to me once I leave here."

Mrs Hudson was outraged.

"That man! He may be your brother, but he has no right to dictate to you when you can see your…."

She stopped suddenly, as if remembering something. Sherlock looked up at her.

"It's alright Mrs Hudson, I know about this Mary Morstan he's living with."

"Oh." Her thin hand stole across the table to take hold of his, giving it a squeeze.

"I must see him even if he doesn't forgive me for what I did, I need to tell him I'm sorry." Sherlock swallowed past the tightening in his throat. "But I shan't wish him happiness in his new life, because after all I've done to him I find I can't lie to him anymore."

"Mary's a nice girl…."

"And John was mine." Suddenly all the hurt and anger that Sherlock had forced down since he had heard about his once-partner's new life erupted, and the tea cup he held in his hand shattered as he slammed it down on to the table.

"Sherlock!" Snatching up his hand Mrs Hudson checked Sherlock's palm to make sure he hadn't cut himself, then set about clearing away the broken china.

"I'm sorry." As fast as it had come Sherlock's anger went, leaving him sitting looking deflated and lost.

"That's alright dear I'll add it to your rent." Mrs Hudson looked at him expectantly. "You will be moving back in, won't you?"

At last a weak smile graced his thin pale features.

"If you'll have me back."

xXx

Sherlock didn't need to wait for his brother's text. Mrs Hudson handed him a slip of paper with John's new address on it.

As the taxi pulled up at the end of the street Sherlock experienced an unfamiliar feeling of butterflies, and his heart jumped into his throat as he slowly walked through the dark November evening towards the modest house that John now called home.

The sound of the doorbell had barely died away when the door was wrenched open. On the threshold stood a slender woman, short, with short blond hair and a face that was pretty in an unusual way.

"You….You're…." she stammered seeing Sherlock standing on the doorstep.

"Yes, and you must be…." He didn't get the chance to finish as he was hauled in through the doorway and into the hall by the lapels of his Belstaff, and a mobile thrust into his hand.

"Read that!" Mary ordered him as she pulled on her coat.

Sherlock looked down at the message open on the screen.

'_**Save souls now! John or James Watson?'**_

"I think it's a skip code," Mary said as she moved up close to read it with him. "First word, then every third I think."

"_**Save John Watson**_ – Who sent you this?"

There was a second text screen open too and Sherlock read on.

'_**Saint or Sinner? James or John? The more is Less?'**_

"I don't recognise the number, but that's hardly important now is it? We have to find John!" Snatching the phone back Mary hustled the consulting detective out of the door and into her car.

Without a second thought Sherlock climbed into the passenger seat, his brain working a mile a minute trying to assimilate the data.

Mary started the engine.

"Where to?"

"You don't know?" Sherlock looked at her.

"You're the bloody genius here – where to?" Without waiting for his response she pulled away from the curb with a screech of tyres on tarmac.

"Saint James the Less is a church in Pimlico, about sixteen minutes away if the traffic doesn't hold us up."

"I know a shortcut." Already Mary was pulling into narrow backstreets and little roads covered with speed bumps.

Sherlock gritted his teeth, too concerned about John to complain every time the little car hit a bump at speed, throwing him upwards and bumping his head against the roof of the car.

Mary's phone beeped with another incoming text. She reached into her pocket and threw the phone at her passenger. Sherlock opened the new text.

'_**You're getting warmer Mr Holmes. You have about ten minutes'**_

"They know I'm with you." Watching as the streetlights threw strange shadows on Mary's face as she concentrated on the road Sherlock frowned. "Either they were watching your house, or they know I've returned and guessed I'd come to your house."

"I don't care, I just want John back safe!"

"Then we both want the same thing."

A knot of stationary traffic delayed their journey, but just as Sherlock was preparing to get out of the car another text came through.

'_**Better hurry, things are hotting up here...'**_

"Oh for God's sake…" he reached once more for the door handle as Mary floored the accelerator, screeching through an impossible gap in the traffic and speeding them once more on their way.

"That's it, just up there." Sherlock pointed to a church at the end of the road with one hand while opening yet another message with the other.

'_**What a shame Mr Holmes. John is quite a Guy!'**_

"What does it mean?" Mary screeched as the message was read out to her. "What have they done?"

But Sherlock didn't respond. The car skidded to a halt and he was out and running before the engine dies, pushing through the crowd towards the newly lit bonfire in the middle of the church green.

"Move, move, move!" He yelled at adults and children alike as a scream rent the air.

From inside the piled and burning wood came a pained call for help, and the child that had screamed was now in hysterics.

"John! John!" Frantically Sherlock pushed and pulled at the burning wood.

Mary ran up beside him.

"John! Where are you?"

"Call an ambulance" Sherlock ordered as he finally uncovered enough of John's arm to get a grip on him. "John, hold on, I'm going to pull you free."

With a strength born of desperation he pulled, trying to protect John's head as the pile of flaming planks and sticks imploded.

Once free of the inferno Sherlock and Mary knelt on either side of the injured man. Leaning over his friend Sherlock gently patted John's face.

"John? John."

John's eyelids fluttered.

"Hey, John." The younger man said softly.

This time the eyes flashed open, and stared upwards into his face before rolling back into his head.

As the doctor lost consciousness one word slipped from his lips…

"Sherlock!"


	2. Don't Leave Me in All This Pain

Sherlock watched through the window of the side-ward door as Mary sat by John's bed, clasping his hand, leaning close as she talked to him.

Lying on crisp starched sheets John had glanced once towards the door then turned away, confused by what he saw. He listened to Mary explaining that Sherlock had just turned up on their doorstep, but that neither had had the time to do more than read the texts and set out to find him.

She continued to talk, but much of what Mary was saying went over his head, and a single thought chased around his brain – 'Sherlock's alive, Sherlock's alive' – while his heart was slowly turning to stone as with each passing second he realised that for more than two long years he had been grieving for a man who wasn't dead, who had deliberately lied to him and left him.

A hand brushing gently at his cheek snapped him out of his stupor, and he looked up into Mary's grey-green eyes, seeing the confusion in her expression but feeling utterly unable to say or do anything.

"Will you see him?" She asked again, smiling gently down at her fiancé.

John shook his head, unwilling rather than unable to speak, not really trusting his voice.

"Okay," Mary gave his hand a squeeze. "That's okay; I'll tell his Nibbs that he'll have to come back another time."

"Thank you." It wasn't even a hoarse whisper; it was more simply a movement of lips – lifeless and without warmth.

With a sympathetic smile Mary squeezed his hand once more and turned towards the door.

Through the glass Sherlock saw the smile drop from her face, to be replaced with a hard, humourless expression.

Mary didn't give him a chance to say anything. She grabbed Sherlock's arm and dragged him down the ward and out into the stairwell.

Pushing him against the wall she stood close, invading his personal space and leaning into his face as she snarled up at him.

"Do you know what you did to him? Do you?" she spat viciously. "Do you even care?"

"I…."

"No. You don't get to talk here Mr Smart-arse Bloody Holmes! You listen, and then you go away and leave him in peace." Every word was punctuated by her finger poking Sherlock's chest. "He was lost, a broken man when you died. I would never have believed it was possible to be truly heartbroken – but he was. He loved you, did you know that?"

When he briefly nodded his head Mary continued.

"He told me about your relationship, he was convinced his own life was over when you jumped." She sneered. "Oh I know he doesn't love me the way he loved you, but I can make him happy, and I will make sure that you don't get your claws into him again."

It was as if her words had suddenly woken the old Sherlock, a man buried deep within the shell that stood there being castigated by this slip of a woman. His eyes took in everything about her, reading her in a way that only he could…

_Clever - Secret Tattoo - Part time nurse - Short sighted - only child - Romantic - Bakes Own Bread - Disillusioned - Linguist – Guardian- Cat Lover - Lib Dem - Size 12 - Appendix scar – Liar…. _

"Are you threatening me Miss Morstan?"

"If that's what it takes to ensure my happiness and his, then yes – that's exactly what I'm doing."

"Oh, I wouldn't do that…." Suddenly he sounded like the Sherlock Sally Donovan had always called Freak; the one John had always referred to as a git. "You are playing way out of your league."

With a cold glance that travelled from his head to the pointed toes of his highly polished shoes and back again, Mary stepped away and backed towards the stairwell door.

"You don't frighten me Mr Holmes." She sneered. "I thank you for helping me save John, and for that I'm willing to give you a chance to get back out of his life. Last warning Sherlock. Leave. Him. Alone."

xXx

Released from hospital after a night under observation, John stared blindly out of the car windscreen as Mary drove them home.

After thanking her for bringing him clean clothes and for letting the surgery know that he would be off for the rest of the week he had fallen silent, withdrawn within his mind, trying to sort through his tangled, tortured thoughts.

Wisely Mary refrained from telling him of her conversation with Sherlock, just glancing his way occasionally as she expertly manoeuvred through the London traffic. Once at home she led the way in, carrying his bag as the palms both of John's hands were singed and bandaged, and watching as he wandered straight up to the bedroom and closed the door behind him. He made it clear he wanted to be alone. Mary quietly seethed as she set about making lunch for them both.

xXx

Less than ten miles away Sherlock sat in the darkened living room of 221B, the curtains had been closed and so the only source of light being the fire that Mrs Hudson had taken the liberty of lighting when she visited earlier to air the room.

In his hand was a photograph of John, one that Mrs Hudson had taken at their Christmas party when the doctor thought he was unobserved. There was a look in his eyes that, had Sherlock turned at that moment, would have told him everything he had waited to learn about John's true feelings – a lost, longing look that their landlady had seen and recognised. She had given Sherlock this photograph shortly before things went so horribly wrong, and against his brother's advice he had carried it with him most of the time that he was away – sometimes risking capture to retrieve it before moving on – the knowledge that his John was safe back in London driving him onwards to finish what Moriarty had started.

The tattered, fragile piece of paper quivered slightly as a tremor rattled through the younger man. He drew in a sharp breath, the fingers of his other hand clenching tightly on the arm of his chair before reaching for his mobile.

"Lestrade, you are aware that my name's been cleared so I'm free to work with you again?" Sherlock didn't even give the detective the chance to answer his phone properly, which caused an unfortunate reaction.

Sally Donovan had picked up her boss's phone from where he had left it on the front seat of his car and now, hearing a dead man talking, she screamed and dropped the mobile onto the pavement, smashing it and causing a screech of feedback in Sherlock's ear.

He dropped his own phone into his lap, swearing under his breath fluently in Russian, and holding the side of his head.

Picking up the iPhone he dialled the Detective inspector once more, but the call couldn't connect and his only answer was a metallic voice asking him to try again.

xXx

"Donovan, what the hell…..?"

"It was…..it was him….." Sally was shaking, her normally warm caramel skin tones paling to a dusty ash grey.

"What have you done to my phone?" distracted by the mess of smashed plastic and glass on the crime-scene floor, Lestrade missed the horrified expression on his sergeant's face. "Bloody hell Sally, you realise I'll have to report this breakage and they'll probably stop it out of my salary?"

When he received no answer he finally looked up into her face and read there the obvious distress. With a vague wave of his hand he sent the officers that had come running at the sound of Sally's scream back to their tasks, then turned and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder.

"What's the matter?"

"It was him…..it was Sherlock!"

Greg looked once more at the wreckage of his phone.

"What did he want?"

It was the wrong thing to say. Sally turned on him, fear and shock giving way to cold fury.

"You _knew_? You knew he was alive?" She gasped. "Since when?"

"Since yesterday." The DI held his hands up placatingly. "He just turned up Sal, I swear it was the first I knew!"

"And you didn't think to tell us? To tell me? What about Philip, does he know?"

"Anderson believed he never died in the first place – seems like he was smarter than the rest of us." Greg tried to laugh it off, but Sally was having none of it.

"Don't! After all the piss taking he took – have you even_ told_ him yet?" The Detective Sergeant seethed, shoving at her superior officer's chest to accentuate every word. "We're your team, we deserve better treatment that this."

"That's enough Sergeant Donovan." Lestrade stepped back and resumed the persona of Officer In Charge. "You're a good officer, better than most, but there's only so much I'll let you get away with." His eyes and voice softened as he looked at her shocked face. "Sally, what should I have done eh? Told you that I'd seen Sherlock? That he was alive and he'd ambushed me in the car park? You wouldn't have believed me, let's face it I even doubted myself."

"But the car park has CCTV…."

"Yeah." Greg choked back a laugh. "First thing this morning I went in to the ops room to check the footage – nothing. Not even a shadow out of place."

"How?" Sally's eyes flickered across Greg's face, as if hoping to read the answer there.

Greg shrugged.

"That man has spent most of his adult life avoiding his brother's surveillance – Scotland Yard's CCTV would have been child's play for him."

xXx

Several miles away in his Whitehall office Mycroft Holmes looked down at the manila file on his desk and sighed.

Even with his highly trained staff he couldn't get any real information on the rumoured terrorist plot, every lead was a dead end, and every person they had pulled in had proved to be mere minnows in the shark's pool – and minnows rarely had any information of relevance.

Drumming his fingers on the small sheaf of papers he considered his options. Whether or not to waste more time hoping his operatives could finally uncover the ring-leader, or should he just hand it all over to his brother, to persuade him to take the case to take his mind off Doctor John Watson.

A frown creased his high, lightly freckled forehead as he turned to his computer screen and replayed the tape from the hospital stairwell. He had been monitoring it purely because John had been admitted as a patient – some old habits die hard – yet he was somewhat shocked to see his brother being dragged through the door and berated by the slip of a woman currently engaged to the good doctor.

It was easy to read his brother's lips. _'Are you threatening me Miss Morstan?'_

It would appear that was exactly what she was doing, and her body language was different, very different, to the way she had usually appeared. No longer the demure part time nurse that worked at the practice, she was more tigress protecting her cubs, tense and ready to strike.

Mycroft's eyes narrowed. He had seen Mary Morstan mostly from a distance, but what he had seen had made very little impression on him – now he found himself reaching for his intercom.

"Anthea, I have a job for you."

xXx

"It's not like you not to want to eat." Mary smiled across the dining table. "Are your hands still hurting?"

John shook his head.

"No, I just…well…." He looked at her and sighed loudly. "I'm sorry, I think it's just the shock kicking in."

"I'm not surprised, finding yourself trapped in a bonfire like a hibernating hedgehog…"

"No, it's not that." Putting his knife and fork down, John leaned his elbows on the table and pressed his fingertips against his temples. "It was seeing him again, seeing him alive…."

"Sherlock?"

"Who else?" A bubble of hysterical laughter burst from between John's lips. "It's not every day you meet Lazarus face to face."

"Forget him John, he couldn't wait to be let off the hook."

"What?"

"In the hospital." Mary explained. "When I told him you weren't up to seeing him right away his relief was written all over his smug face – he couldn't get out of there quick enough!"

Pale faced with grief John shoved himself away from the table, wincing as the pressure on his bandaged hands set the nerves in his burnt palms screaming at their mistreatment. Without looking back he headed once more towards the stairs.

Mary leapt up also, reaching out to him as he stormed past her but he avoided her grasp.

"No Mary," he said looking steadfastly up towards their bedroom. "No, I just want some time alone."

He almost ran up the stairs, and as the bedroom door closed once more behind him Mary started to clear the table, a small smile playing around her lips as hummed softly to herself.


	3. Out in the Rain

After a mostly sleepless night, disturbed by sharp pains and bad dreams the like of which he hadn't suffered since he first returned from Afghanistan, John waited until Mary had left for her morning shift at the surgery then pulled on his overcoat and stepped out of the house.

Initially he had no clear idea where he wanted to go, but gradually his route took him west, towards the theatres and the bustle of the London crowds, although John saw none of this. His mind was replaying the last forty-eight hours, from being snatched outside the surgery, the fire and the knowledge that Sherlock was alive overlaid with the sight of his Belstaff flapping like great black wings as he fell from the roof of the hospital, his blood staining the familiar pavement….

He came to a halt, suddenly becoming aware of the people and traffic around him before he spotted her – Anthea, or whatever it was she was calling herself these days – standing beside the sleek black car, looking pointedly in his direction.

Uncertain, John ran a hand through his hair, looking everywhere but in her direction, not wanting to make eye contact yet unable to actually move away.

"Doctor Watson." Suddenly she was there beside him. "Mr Holmes would like to speak with you."

"Which one?" To his dismay John's voice came out cracked and broken. He screwed up his eyes and looked at her, still not meeting her bland gaze but keeping his eye line somewhere in the region of her scarlet coated lips, missing the almost disbelieving expression on her face as she raised her eyebrows.

"Mr Mycroft Holmes, Doctor Watson. I'm sure you were already aware." She returned her attention to her blackberry, adding "Please doctor, now is not the time to behave like a child."

"Oh really?" suddenly angry, John's head came up. "Behaving like a child? Maybe he'd like to come and speak to me man to man instead of sending a lackey."

Turning on his heel John started to march away but a slender hand grasped his arm.

"It's not a good idea…" Anthea's voice dried in her throat as she encountered the blazing fury in the ex-soldiers eye.

"How dare you! More to the point how dare Mycroft bloody Holmes think he can order me about?" John was seething. "It'll be a cold day in hell before I get into one of that man's cars again."

Without a backwards glance the doctor hurried away, paying no heed to his destination, just intent on putting distance between himself and the British Government.

If John had taken the time to glance behind him he might have noticed a rather shaken looking Anthea nodding to a dark suited gentleman who had been standing inconspicuously looking at a newspaper stand. Peeling away he kept pace with the ex-army doctor, following at a discreet distance as the other man headed deeper into the crowds of early Christmas shoppers.

xXx

The babble of voices in the main office died, and Lestrade stood up to see what had caused the interruption to the daily jokes and sexist remarks.

Sherlock.

Somehow he'd know that it had to be him.

"Okay you lot, seeing a dead man walking is no excuse to stop work – get back to it."

He waved the smirking consultant through to his office and gestured to Donovan to join them which she did, closing the door emphatically behind her and glaring at the younger man.

"Right," Greg started, standing between the other two as if to prevent a fight. "There is an apology owed here…."

"There certainly is," Sherlock spoke up. "My ears were ringing…."

"What? Me? I owe you an apology?" Donovan was oblivious to the hush that had descended once more over the officers in the outer room. "You bloody well jump off a building, convincing everyone that you are dead, then out of the blue you come back and just expect to waltz back onto our crime scenes?"

Sherlock's expression morphed almost instantly from smug to stung, and he looked, puzzled, at Lestrade.

"She's right Sherlock," Greg sighed, motioning the two antagonists to sit down. "You really need to realise the effect your actions had on many of us – not least John and Mrs Hudson – and while yes, your brother was instrumental in clearing your name, that doesn't give you carte blanche to pick up where you left off."

"And what of your arrest figures?"

"They're not as bad as you think." Sally studied her nails as she spoke. "We may take a little longer but we get there, we make the arrests and we get the results."

"And before you say something insulting Sherlock, it may surprise you to know that despite all of the jibes my team do know their job, and I will take exception to you continuing to make snarky remarks about their abilities."

Sherlock raised a faintly disbelieving eyebrow.

Donovan smirked, but her victory was short lived.

"Likewise I won't have my team baiting my consultant." Greg turned a stern eye on the Detective Sergeant. "It belittles us all, as does the name calling – it stops here and it stops now."

Silence descended over the trio, as each settled momentarily into their own thoughts – Greg wondering if his edict will work, Sally debating whether her boss actually meant what he said about name calling, and Sherlock deleting the whole conversation (apart from Lestrade's words "my consultant") from his hard drive.

Drawing in a deep breath Greg shook himself out of his stupor.

"Right, now with that settled, Sally I want you to fill him in on the latest spate of disappearances….."

xXx

Mycroft was speechless. In fact, he couldn't remember the last time he was left in this state by another human being other than his little brother.

There were many times the antics of his irrepressibly curious sibling left him standing adrift in a sea of exploded experiments, but Sherlock was the only person who ever refused to get into one of Mycroft's fleet of cars and got away with it.

And it left the embodiment of the British Government was in a quandary.

He needed Sherlock's assistance – after all, that was why he had personally gone to fetch him home – but Sherlock wanted Dr Watson, and after the last confrontation with the doctor's fiancée his brother had refused to discuss the possibility of taking Mycroft's case, instead he had taken himself back to New Scotland Yard and his friend Detective Inspector Lestrade. Mycroft was as close to desperate as he had ever been.

As he watched John on his monitor another email alert flashed in the corner, and he switched tabs to read the latest missive.

Things had moved on apace – one of the minnows had let slip some new information about dates, and it appeared that this coming Wednesday featured heavily in their plans. Mycroft consulted his desk calendar – 5th. Yes, it made sense. All he had to do now was work out exactly what they planned to do, and for that he really needed his brother. Reaching out he picked up his mobile.

It rang exactly three times before his brother's bored tones responded.

"I'm not interested Mycroft, go away."

"I could make you do it, brother mine."

There was a pause as the younger Holmes brother gave instructions to the cabbie.

"No," he continued a moment later. "No, I don't think you can. And anyway, I'm working this case of mysterious disappearances for Lestrade."

"And we both know the answer to that one."

"We know the How, and even the Why seeing that each 'kidnapped' person returns home within a few days with no knowledge of where they had been or what had happened while they were gone, but it's the Who that interests me." Sherlock leaned forward and tapped on the cabbie's window. "Here will do." And with his phone pressed to his ear he stepped out of the traffic bound cab and into the road, shoving notes at the driver before weaving in and out of the stationary cars.

"Mycroft just get your….." He looked up as he reached the pavement and saw John, head down against the driving rain walking towards him. "Goodbye Mycroft."

With a flick of his fingers he cut the call and strode forward.

Sherlock's eyes took in everything about the man walking towards him, hunched and miserable looking, with no clear purpose, and oblivious to the fact that some fifty yards back he had passed his old home.

As the younger man slowed his pace so too did John, as if sensing an imminent collision, but then he looked up, and what colour had been left in his cold pinched cheeks drained away completely.

"John."

Breaking the silence that seemed to blot out everything around them also broke the spell that had held both men immobile, and John launched forward, heedless of his still bandaged hands and grasped the lapels of Sherlock's Belstaff.

"You bastard!" he spat viciously. "Where…What did I do to deserve two years of grief? If you wanted to end the relationship why not do it the old fashioned way and just tell me?"

John's breath was coming in harsh sobs, and he seemed in real danger of hyperventilating.

"John please…."

"Please what? Please accept that you pretended to be dead? Please try to forget those years of pain? Please try to understand why you walked away from the hospital without a backward glance? Fuck you Sherlock!"

Pushing away from his one-time lover John tried to walk around him but stumbled, his legs folding under him like jelly, and only Sherlock's swift reflexes prevented him from hitting the floor.

"John, let me help you…"

John snarled like a caged animal, but Sherlock held on tightly.

"Look, Mrs Hudson's is only a little way back along the road, let me get you into the warm."

Sherlock didn't know whether to be glad or terrified when John finally sagged against him, all the fight seemingly gone out of him, and dragging his feet he allowed himself to be led back to that familiar black door, too shaken to even notice that Sherlock let himself in rather than knocking.

Hearing the scuffling of the two men as they staggered through the door, Mrs Hudson bustled out of her flat.

"John!" she exclaimed. "Oh my goodness Sherlock, what have you done to him?"

Not giving her tenant time to reply she insinuated herself under John's other arm and together she and Sherlock manhandled him into her living room, dragging his soaking wet coat from his shoulders before settling him into an armchair in front of the fire

"Now, you settle yourself there John, and let me get you a nice cu of tea."

"Mrs Hudson, I'm sorry – I didn't mean to cause you problems…" John blinked up at his former landlady, but she waved away his apology.

"If I know anything John Watson, it's that this great lump of a genius here is to blame for whatever has happened to you today, now you just sit and relax, and you…" she turned to Sherlock and pointed to the chair on the other side of the fire. "You just sit there and hold your peace!"

As she marched back out to her kitchen John looked across and caught Sherlock's eye, and before either man knew what was happening they were giggling hysterically.

"Well that told you," John chortled, trying to control his spasms of laughter. "You great lump!"

"Not fair," Sherlock struggled against the giggles. "She always blames me."

John sobered up.

"Yes, and sometimes you deserve it." He said softly.

"Will you let me tell you why I did what I did?"

After a moment's hesitation John nodded. From the doorway Mrs Hudson watched as, for the first time in his life Sherlock tried to explain his actions.

Neither man noticed Mrs Hudson coming in with the teapot, milk and sugar, nor the amount of that beverage that they managed between them to consume, but all too soon Sherlock found himself staring into John's bewildered blue eyes as the doctor asked the one question the younger man had dreaded hearing.

"Who knew?"

"Well….." Sherlock's eyes slid away to gaze into the fire. "Mycroft; he helped me set up the meeting with Moriarty, but it didn't go as I planned."

"Obviously." John said drily. "So, just Mycroft, and I assume his minions…."

"No."

Running the edge of his thumbnail across his eyebrow, John looked down at the now cold cup of tea in his hand and asked softly "Then who else?"

"Molly." Sherlock winced as the name sounded loud in the room, and in the doorway Martha Hudson drew a shocked breath.

Swallowing hard, John placed his cup on the table.

"So, Mycroft and Molly. How about Greg? Sally and Anderson? Your homeless….." he broke off as he saw the expression on the other man's face. "How many? Fifty? A hundred?"

"About twenty five."

"So, you trusted your brother, who you never trust, Molly – what did you offer her? A quick shag? A date? – and a bunch of homeless people, but you couldn't trust me? Oh of course, I was only the one you said you loved," John's voice cracked, and he stood up. "I was the one you made stand and watch and believe that you had committed suicide…"

Sherlock leapt to his feet.

"No John, you don't understand…"

But he was unable to finish his sentence as John's fist connected with his face, spattering blood from his nose across the shoulder of his Spencer Hart suit.

Turning on his heel John muttered an apology to a horrified Mrs Hudson and was out of the building and into a cab before Sherlock could regain his equilibrium.

Handing Sherlock a box of tissues his landlady sat in the seat so recently vacated by the doctor and shook her head.

"Well, that didn't go too well, did it?"


	4. Come Back, Bring Back My Smile

**Apologies for the delay - enjoy :)**

As soon as John stepped through the door Mary knew, she could see in every line of his body the distress that could only have come from talking to Sherlock Holmes.

She bit her lip, waiting to be quizzed about the lies she had told, but the question never came. Instead he wearily dragged his jacket off and slumped into his favourite armchair.

"Sweetheart, do you want tea?" Laying her hand on his shoulder Mary smiled down at him, her smile fading a little as he shook his head. "Are you okay?"

"I met Sherlock."

"Oh?"

John glanced up at her, but saw nothing in her expression but polite interest.

"I went for a walk," he sighed eventually. "And literally bumped into him in Baker Street –I hadn't realised I'd walked that far…"

"Baker Street?" Mary's expression became all anxious concern. "No wonder you're worn out! Now you sit and rest there, I'll make us something to eat."

Reaching up John laid his hand over hers.

"Thanks love, where would I be without you?"

Mary dropped a kiss on John's forehead and moved back through to the kitchen, her mind turning over how much time John may have spent with his ex-partner, and what Sherlock may or may not have said to him.

Watching her walk away John sighed quietly. He knew he was lying both to himself and to her – the time spent with Sherlock, despite how the meeting had ended, had reignited all those feelings he thought had died, brought them rushing back in a flood of anger and want, desperation and despair.

In his mind he turned Sherlock's words over and over – the set up that went wrong, Mycroft, Molly and the homeless network's involvement, the snipers and death threats – the words whizzed around in his head like an out of control merry-go-round, until he could barely be sure that the words made sense.

The only thing John was certain of was the tightness in his chest and the fluttering in his stomach – it had been two years since he had felt like this, and it was a feeling he had longed for, that he had thought never to feel again. He closed his eyes to savour the surge of emotion, and by the time Mary returned with food he was fast asleep.

xXx

Mycroft looked down at his brother, signs of a fight still evident in the slight swelling of his nose and the blood red staining on his upper lip.

"Don't pretend to be asleep Sherlock, nor lost in your mind palace – your avoidance tactics are childish to say the very least."

Not bothering to even open his eyes, Sherlock remained alert even though every inch of his body said 'sleeping, disengaged'.

"I see John found his way back to you this afternoon."

Still no response.

Mycroft was beginning to lose his customary cool – for years his brother had been difficult to deal with but since his return, and John's rejection of him, the elder Holmes' belief that 'caring is not an advantage' had been strengthened – and he was less tolerant of Sherlock's foibles than he had ever been.

Added to this was his anger at not being able to command the good doctor's presence, to persuade him to help with the terrorist threat, to appeal to his sense of duty, was irking him.

"He refused to meet me, flatly refused Anthea's invitation to accept a lift to my office…."

This information finally drew a response from the younger Holmes. He grinned and sat up, his eyes deducing Mycroft's bewilderment at the ex-army doctor's action.

His grin widened.

"Good for you, John." he murmured, just loud enough for his brother to hear.

"Not really." Mycroft snapped. "I had hoped I could discuss this terrorist threat with him, and then persuade him to help make you see sense…."

"Admit it."

Mycroft clenched his teeth and looked disdainfully at his sibling.

His sibling cocked an arrogant eyebrow in his direction.

"Admit it Mycroft." He repeated softly. "Admit that you need my help."

The Government official stalked over to sit in an armchair.

"Really Sherlock, must we play these games? You were well aware that I brought you back here specifically to work on this." in an unusual moment of weakness, Mycroft sat back and wiped a weary hand across his eyes. "We have just days, Sherlock. Days before whatever they plan to do will actually happen – what will it take for you to just this once assist without making a drama out of it?"

"A good reason."

"And I suppose that the fact that we now know the date of the proposed attack? It will happen in two days' time, on November 5th."

Slowly the smile slipped from Sherlock's face.

"John."

"I've told you, he won't…"

"No! I mean John was put into a bonfire, Wednesday night is Guy Fawkes night – John is already involved, whether he wants to be or not!"

xXx

Climbing out of the cab Mrs Hudson looked at the house John shared with Mary. She had never visited before, even though John had invited her when the couple had first moved in – it had always seemed too hard to deal with, knowing what her boys had meant to each other.

Now, taking a deep breath she stepped up to the door and rang the bell.

"Mrs Hudson?" Mary frowned as she saw who was standing on the doorstep.

"Hello Mary dear," Martha Hudson bustled forward. "Is John in?"

"Well…." The younger lady was forced to step back as John's former landlady walked past her into the hallway, looking all around her as she did so. "He's not really…."

But Mrs Hudson had already found her way through to the living room, and was exclaiming quietly over the doctor who had woken up and was struggling to his feet.

"Mrs Hudson!" John pulled her into a hug, and then led her to a chair. "What's happened? Is it Sherlock?"

Standing in the doorway Mary rolled her eyes.

"Whenever isn't it Sherlock?" She asked, joining them and sitting on the couch.

John shot her a confused look, but Mary's face was completely wiped clean of expression, showing only a slight air of concern as she looked at the octogenarian.

"Actually, it's Mycroft."

"Mycroft?" Mary and John exclaimed together.

"Now what has the posh git done?" John wiped a hand down his face and sat back down in his chair. "If he's putting pressure onto you because I refused to get into his car…."

"No dear, but…." she paused and looked at Mary. "May I have a cup of tea do you think?"

John rolled his eyes.

"I'm sorry, where are my manners?"

He went to stand but Mary was on her feet first, waving him back into his chair as she walked out to the kitchen.

"He wants Sherlock to take on a case for him" Martha Hudson continued, lowering her voice and speaking hurriedly. "Something to do with a terrorist threat. Now you know Sherlock doesn't like doing work for his brother..."

"That's an understatement."

"…but Mycroft said something about the plot being tied in with Guy Fawkes night – well, Sherlock started to panic, especially after your bit of trouble."

"Bit of trouble?" Mary placed a tray on the table and proceeded to pour the tea.

"Well I think that's putting it mildly – some bastard drugged me and put me in a bonfi…." John's voice trailed off, his eyes widening in realisation. "Guy Fawkes?"

"Apparently whatever it is that's going to happen will happen on Wednesday – Sherlock is convinced that whether or not you want to be, you're involved."

"But why? Why John?"

"Mary it's obvious, whoever is doing this is playing with Mycroft, Mycroft in turn was forced to bring his brother back from wherever he's been hiding these past two years, and to ensure they have Sherlock's attention they decided to take me – dead or alive, they knew he'd come running…..Dear God I thought I was past all of this!"

"John!" Mary was on her knees beside his chair in a flash.

Mrs Hudson just sat and watched, remaining silent as John struggled with his inner demons. After several long moments the doctor looked up, meeting her gaze with steely determination.

"Why you?" he asked. "Why didn't Sherlock come himself? After all, he knows where I live – you told him."

"He didn't think he'd get through the door, let alone be allowed to explain." Taking a delicate sip of her tea Mrs Hudson looked up at him through lowered eyes and waited.

"And isn't it just like Sherlock to get someone else to do his dirty work for him. You shouldn't let him use you Mrs H."

"I offered." Placing her cup and saucer back down she leaned forward and patted his knee. "He needs your help John; even if you cannot bring yourself to forgive what he did to you – to all of us – what you had together must count for something?"

"Stop it!" Mary cried. "Stop it; you can't guilt him into helping."

"She doesn't need to." John took hold of his girlfriend's hand, giving it a gentle squeeze as his other hand moved to tip her face towards him. "I'm involved – the kidnap ensured that – and yes, I may be angry, no – bloody furious – with Sherlock, I owe him a lot. I wouldn't be here at all if weren't for him."

"But he…"

"No, seriously Mary, long before Moriarty raised his ugly head and Sherlock jumped, even before we…." he looked away, remembering. "Look, let me do this one thing to help him, and then I promise I'll sit down and discuss this with you properly."

Grey-green eyes scanned his face, reading determination and sadness where she had hoped to still find anger, and knowing that he would go with or without her blessing Mary smiled and nodded.

"Go on then." She said softly. "Just leave me the car, in case I have to come rescue the pair of you!"

With a grateful grin John stood, pulling Mary up into a hugs then turned to Mrs Hudson.

"Did you come in one of Mycroft's cars?"

The older lady chuckled.

"If I did would you get in it?"

"No" John grinned back at her.

"Then it's just as well Sherlock gave me the cab fare for both journeys."

"Well, you'll be lucky to find a black cab around here." Mary reached into her jeans pocket for her mobile. "I'll ring for a taxi, you get ready to go." Her hand reached out and grabbed John's forearm as he went to leave the room. "Just come back to me?"

"Of course." John reassured his girlfriend, pulling her into his arms and kissing her. "Don't worry, okay?"

xXx

In the back of the mini cab the atmosphere was tensely silent. John was very aware of his former landlady's gaze on him, but kept his eyes fixed firmly on the passing scenery.

"You still love him." The softly spoken words broke the silence.

John turned and looked at the woman sitting next to him. Part of him wanted to lie, to say he hated Sherlock and everything he had done to them both, but he knew that Mrs Hudson knew him far too well for that. Instead he swallowed, and looked away again.

"Always have, always will." He said quietly. "But I have Mary now, and I don't really know what to do." He glanced back at Mrs Hudson with a small sad smile.

"What do you want to do?"

"God I don't know. Turn back the clock? Have the last two years wiped out, so this never happened?" John shook his head. "Make him promise never to do it again? Do you think he would? Promise me that and actually mean it?"

"He loves you john, he's hurting as much as you are, because what he did he did for you…."

"And you and Greg." The doctor reminded her, but she tutted and shook her head at him.

"If it had been just the Inspector and me, he would have tried all ways possible to prevent us getting hurt, but if it had happened he would have acknowledged it and then moved on – he counts us as friends, but we are not you!"

"Yet he took off without a thought for those he left behind – without a care – just buggered off for the adventure!" John's voice rose, causing the mini cab driver to give him a hard stare in the rear-view mirror.

"I would never have believed you could be so unforgiving! The John Watson I know…."

"I'm no longer the John Watson you knew Mrs Hudson – I learned a hard lesson from Sherlock, and learned it well."

"Now stop it! If you really feel that to be true why have you agreed to come?"

John opened his mouth to answer, but Mrs Hudson held up a hand.

"Don't try to tell me you are doing it because of what happened Saturday night, I won't believe you." She fixed him with gimlet eye. "You have come because he needs you, and you know it."

The vehicle pulled up outside 221B, forestalling any further conversation, and as Mrs Hudson used Sherlock's money to pay and tip the driver John stood and looked up at the front of the house, his mind in turmoil.

Was he really here because Sherlock needed him, or was it something a little more selfish? If he was honest, wasn't the truth that he just couldn't stay away, from Sherlock, from the work, from the madness that was life with the worlds only regenerated consulting detective.


End file.
